The ghost of Patrick Henry

Last night I saw a ghost but I was not sure whose it was until the ghost started to orate: "Give me liberty or give me death." The reason, I think, why I evoked Patrick Henry was the recent ruckus over the mischievous effects of Proc. 1017.

The big question is: Given that 1017 is martial law in disguise, how would the Filipino react to it? There's no question that the media almost to a man (or woman) has made its adamant stand. We have to salute Sheila Coronel, executive director of the Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism for resisting the efforts of the police to raid the office of the PCIJ. Luckily, the enlightened judge turned down the police petition for a warrant.

We have pointed out that proclamations like 1017 are sure to embolden certain ignorant and uninformed elements of the police and/or the military. It is fortunate that GMA had the sense to quickly lift 1017 after seeing that the people will not tolerate an intrusion into their constitutional rights. For the truth is that nobody can take a people's liberty away. The people can lose their liberty by giving it up, by not cherishing it, by not caring one way or the other. That is why Patrick Henry had the great wisdom and foresight to warn that eternal vigilance is the price of liberty. The watch over our rights never ends. We flag and fail at our perit.

It would be a sophomoric notion to suppose that the future will be hunky-dory, as far as our liberties are concerned. Politicians will try to preserve and expand their power and will try to find ways to do so at the expense of the people. That is why we need a hundred, may a thousand Patrick Henrys!

Meanwhile, we will just console ourselves that there are still people like Sheila Coronel, and, on the political front, people like Joker Arroyo. I will not start mentioning names because there are a multitude out there who are vigilant. Here in Bacolod, the people, spearheaded by the media, have shown their sentiments.

All I can say, as they have said of Abu Ben Adhem, May their tribe increase.

****

INDIA DIARY: The trip from Delhi to Agra, the site of Taj Mahal covers about 200 kilometers. It was a chance to see and feel the North Indian countryside. Getting out of Delhi, along the highway, one notes the bareness of much of land near the road. One sees big rocks in some areas. I reflected that probably the Hindu practice of cremating their dead have resulted in the disappearance of trees.

Somewhere in the outskirts of the City of Bulandshai, we came upon a couple of boys, selling cane juice. They had a cane crusher with which they extract the juice. I didn't know what got into me but I requested the driver to stop. I had a long-standing yen to drink fresh cane juice. I'm a true-blooded Negrense, denizen of an island where the "cane" is the king. So I ordered a glass for me and another for my friend, the driver. Fe wouldn't even look.

The boys started "milling" the canes, I noted that the canes were not too clean. The process continued until a plastic cup, also uncertified, filled with the sweet brew was given me. With fool-hardy courage, I summoned the Malayan courage in me and drank only about half of the cup. Hey, this is India. How sure are you that the miniature sugar central is not crawling with out-of-this world bacteria. What if your immune system is no match for the Indian virus? All along this line of thought. What if I get sick --- a terrible fear.

I escaped getting sick that time. But I swore not to press my luck.

The highway to Agra is full of surprises mainly from animals sometimes, you are startled to see a camel, a tall creature with a frothing mouth, pulling loads of brown things which turned out to be dried animal shit obviously used for cooking. (Wood is that scarce) I am told it's also used as housing material.

Somewhere half-way between Delhi and Agra), traffic slowed down. I stretched my legs out of the car and observed a fellow with a monkey. The monkey had unusual abilities making pirouettes, jumping up and down, doing tumbles after which it sort of extends its hand to ask for a "reward". Since our car was stopped the monkey with the handler came to us and offered to have the "artist" perform. We declined, fearing a hassle as to the monkey's fee. The monkey looked devastated at our refusal. I never saw a face so sad and disappointed. The monkey's eyes, as they say, were wells of woe. The friggin monkey deserved an Oscar.

Later on, we saw more monkeys but it was when we left Uttar Pradesh, the site of Agra, for Rajastan.

I am sorry that all I can report in this diary this time is about animals.

We approached Agra, at last and at last we can feast our eyes on Taj Majal, the object of our trip.*

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